Memories
by iadoreinu
Summary: I was prompted to write this by looking at an old portrait and wondering about the lives of the people posing. A man finds an old family portrait and remembers the circumstances surrounding the picture.


**Memories**

**By: Katelyn Oprondek**

I looked down at the old snapshot. I remember this photo. The shot was old - the date written on the back said 1909 - but well preserved. It was matted on a piece of cardboard with an oval-shaped border stamped in grey around its edge. I think back to the day we had our new family portrait taken…

My father had made an appointment for the photographer to arrive. "We are getting a new portrait taken today," he said when he brought home the recently purchased clothes for my sisters and me. He told me to dress and demanded that our cook, Natalie, make sure my sisters were ready by the time the photographer came. He then announced that he was retiring to his room to ready himself for the photo.

Mary and Greta were three and six respectively, each incapable of dressing themselves in the many layers that my father had acquired. Natalie was busy cooking dinner, and complained about the extra task of dressing my sisters.

I went to my room and put on the clothes slowly, the foreign feeling of the material making my skin itch. I changed quickly, hoping to please my father. Once I was dressed, I went back downstairs. I walked into the parlor and saw my father greeting the photographer. I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see my sisters entering the room, Natalie following closely behind. As the photographer prepared to do his job, my father approached us. "Today is a new day for us, children," he said. "We are all the family we need." I don't know if he meant to convince us or himself with that statement. But from the look in his eyes, I thought that perhaps it was a little bit of both.

My father was a military man. You can see it in the photo. The way he held himself gave it away. He had a proud stance although he was sitting - chin up, eyes focused. He was a strong man. I only saw him cry once, when my mother died.

My mother died that summer in 1909 from influenza. She took my little, unborn brother with her. The doctor couldn't save her or the baby. My father crumbled when they died. It was as if his whole world had disappeared along with them. My mother left us behind to contend with my father's grief. I think, our presence only served to remind him of my mother which was something he could not bear. He was gone most of the time, and tried to appear happy when he was home. His sudden desire to take a new family portrait was a surprise, to say the least.

When the photographer had finished setting up, my father gathered us to him. He took my sisters in his arms and sat on the stool placed in front of the photographer's backdrop. The photographer directed me towards my father's right shoulder. I stood slightly behind him to his right. Mary sat on my father's knee directly in front of me, while Greta was perched on the opposite knee. My father instructed us to "be proud of our family."

Once the photographer had placed us in the proper position, he ducked under the curtain behind his camera's lens. The photographer warned us that the photo would take some time to develop and that we should stay still in order to receive a clear picture. I heard a click, and tried to stand completely still.

While standing there, my mind wandered back to the last few weeks since my mother's death. When the doctor told my father that my mother had passed away, he put his head in his hands and wept. The doctor left and I approached my father. My father didn't notice my arrival until I reached for his shoulder. My fingers gripped his jacket, and his head rose. The grief I saw in his eyes was so deep that it pushed me back a step, but his next words startled me even more. "What do you want? Get out of here! Don't you understand? Your mother's dead!" As I backed away from his outburst, I heard him whisper "your mother's dead." This show of emotion was so out of character for my father that at the sound of his ragged sob I turned and ran. The sudden revelation that my mother was gone made my whole body go cold. I ran past my sisters' room and a startled Natalie in my headlong rush toward the door. I retreated to my favorite spot – a gap between the branches of a tall oak tree. A few hours later, Natalie convinced me to return to the house. My father locked himself in his bedroom for three days, and when he emerged he was not himself. He could barely look at us. My sisters tried to get his attention, but I kept my distance. His previous outburst had frightened me. He gave me no explanation for his outburst, nor an apology for scaring me. He simply dressed his best and walked out the door, leaving us behind. I remember feeling as if I had lost both my parents, instead of just one. His evasive behavior was broken the day we had our new portrait taken.

When the photographer told us it was okay to move, we changed out of our new clothes. After that day, my father gave us the same attention that he had before my mother died; however, he seemed to be going through the motions. My father tried to create the illusion that our family was healing and happy. The new photo was my father's way of recognizing our family without my mother. From that day on, I never felt that my father's care and attention was genuine. He made a show of buying us things and taking us out, but I never felt assured that my father still cared for us.

My wife's voice pulls me out of my reverie. "Ralph," I hear my wife say, "What did you find?" I pondered that a moment. What had I found?

"Memories" I reply.

I place the photo back on the trunk in the attic where I found it and return downstairs to my family. I swing my youngest son up into my arms and hold him tight, trying to show him just how much I love him. I may not be the perfect father, I make mistakes, but I hope to be a more affectionate and loving father to my children than my father was to me.


End file.
